


Highly Confidential

by key_exchange, miles_and_miles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Episode: e092 Nothing Beside Remains (The Magnus Archives), Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 4, The Magnus Archives Season 3, god at what point does a fic become a leitner..., graphic depictions of regency-era soirees, historical snail mail gay sexting, one of the authors is an archival worker irl, rating mostly for language...but it will get progressively steamier, the other one woke up and chose chaos, tim and melanie unionize against elias, uhhhh....soft graveyard bondage....???, we should probably apologize but we're not going to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28608225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/key_exchange/pseuds/key_exchange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miles_and_miles/pseuds/miles_and_miles
Summary: Tim clicked the recorder on, and both of them ignored the shiver its familiar rasp sent down their spines.“Letter from Robert Smirke, August 23, 1815. Taken from, ah, a document which was found in a box marked Highly Confidential: Do Not Open Under Any Circumstances, but it’s pretty old, so we figure whoever cared is probably dead anyway,” he said, shrugging. “It was interesting and we’re stuck in a horrible hell job, so, like, whatever. Who’s gonna stop me?”“Nice,” said Melanie, high-fiving him.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Basira Hussain & Melanie King, Jonah Magnus/Albrecht von Closen, Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, Melanie King & Tim Stoker
Comments: 50
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

It was just another day at the office -- a phrase which here means that Melanie was idly rifling through a back shelf looking for a bag of weed Tim had allegedly found there last week and Tim had his feet up on his desk as he listened to vaguely audible synth pop through a pair of hot pink headphones. 

“‘Highly Confidential: Do Not Open Under Any Circumstances,’” Melanie read. Tim took off a single headphone. 

“What?” 

“Check it out,” Melanie said. She hefted a half-size document box down from its perch, releasing a copious cloud of dust into the air. It was old -- _really_ old, maybe older than anything she’d found in the archives to date. With only slightly more care than she would’ve taken on a less decrepit container, Melanie plopped it down on the desk in front of Tim. 

“HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: DO NOT OPEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES,” Tim read again from the elegantly handwritten label. The two looked at each other. 

“We should open it,” they said in an eerie unison that had less to do with any genuine preternatural happening and more to do with their mutual desire to say a massive fuck-you to genuine preternatural happenings in general.

“You think it’s cursed or something?” asked Melanie. 

“It would be a bit refreshing if it was, really,” said Tim lazily. “Give us something else to worry about, anyway.” 

“Good point,” Melanie said, prying open the box’s lid. Tim sat up properly to peer into its dusty depths.

“Letters,” he said. “They look pretty old.” 

“April 1830,” read Melanie. “Damn.” 

She reached into the box, delicately shuffling to the next letter. “This one is from 1815. Should we be wearing gloves or something?” 

“Nah,” Tim said. “You only really need them for photos and that kind of thing.” 

“Wait a second.” Melanie peered into the box, then withdrew a creased piece of paper, holding it up to the light. “You’re not going to believe this.” 

“Eh. I believe most things.” 

“I am not fucking around at all when I say this is from Robert Smirke.” 

For the first time in months, Tim looked genuinely interested in something work-related. “Really? Is it a statement?” 

“I don’t think so,” Melanie said. “I think it’s just a letter. See for yourself.” 

“Not to be a productive employee,” said Tim, looking a bit like he’d suddenly begun vibrating at the frequency bees vibrate at to keep warm in the winter, “but I’m going to take a recording. This letter looks in bad shape, and it’s...I don’t know, it seems important.” 

“Ugh, scab,” said Melanie idly, but she wasn’t about to argue when Tim had a spark of life in his eyes for the first time since October. 

“Do you have a--” 

“There’s a recorder right there,” said Melanie, pointing at a small, dusty piece of machinery. “It might be out of battery, though.” 

“Doubt it,” Tim said with an acidic little chuckle. “Alright, here goes.”

He clicked the recorder on, and both of them ignored the shiver its familiar rasp sent down their spines. 

“Letter from Robert Smirke, August 23, 1815. Taken from, ah, a document which was found in a box marked _Highly Confidential: Do Not Open Under Any Circumstances_ , but it’s pretty old, so we figure whoever cared is probably dead anyway,” he said, shrugging. “It was interesting and we’re stuck in a horrible hell job, so, like, whatever. Who’s gonna stop me?” 

“Nice,” said Melanie, high-fiving him. 

“Tim Stoker recording, because Head Archivist Jon Sims is...do we know where he is?” 

“Do we want to?” answered Melanie, whose ongoing feud with Jon was well-known to anyone who worked at the Institute, even random library employees who had precious little to do with the archive staff’s strange bullshit. 

“Great point. Letter begins.” Tim cleared his throat. “ _‘My dearest Jonah--’_ ”

“Wow, that’s pretty familiar,” Melanie interjected, wiggling her eyebrows, and Tim shushed her half-ironically. 

“‘ _My dearest Jonah_ ,’” Tim continued, “‘ _goddamn you_.’” 

“What?” 

“That’s what it says!” said Tim, after squinting a bit at the letter for a moment. “Okay, I’m starting this over.” He cleared his throat. 

“‘ _My dearest Jonah, goddamn you. Your wretched Millbank Prison has consumed my waking hours. During those brief intervals when I retire from the drafting room, you haunt me like a spectre. I dream of you wandering half-built halls, leading me into the labyrinth like Ariadne. You don’t allow me a moment’s peace_.’” 

_Wow_ , Melanie mouthed. Her eyebrows had risen so high that they were in danger of dissolving into her visibly self-cut bangs. Tim continued reading. 

“‘ _What you must understand, Jonah, is that I never intended to embark on this endeavor, nor should I have. I was already occupied with several projects, most of which I have been forced to turn over to colleagues. I am not for hire. It is not my custom to respond to unsolicited inquiries. But you...well.’_ ” 

Tim paused, furrowing his brow and squinting at the ornate handwriting in front of him like he’d misread something. 

“ _It was rather wicked of you to raise the matter in the way you did,_ ” he read. From where Melanie was sitting, his facial expression clearly read, _well, this might as well happen_. 

Tim, never one to turn away from any given challenge thrown his way by the universe, continued reading, though the astonishment in his voice increased exponentially with each word. 

“‘ _Typically, one does not make serious business proposals whilst in another man’s bed, though I do admit your ability to discuss worldly things so elegantly with the self-same mouth you’d employed mere moments earlier in certain acts of amorous congress was rather beguiling_ \--’”

“ _What_?” interrupted Melanie, barely able to process how quickly matters had flown off the proverbial rails. 

“That’s what it says!” 

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.” 

“Look! I couldn’t make this up!” He pointed at the page. 

“Wow. _Wow_. Okay,” said Melanie, scanning the tidy cursive which laced across the page before her. “You can keep reading, I’m just taking a second to process the fact that The Venerable Founder Of Our Institute was kind of a--” 

“--harlot?” finished Tim, waggling his brows. 

“Yeah, kind of a harlot.”

“Shall I go on?” asked Tim. 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

“Very well. Letter resumes, and the Most Dishonourable Sir Smirke continues...‘ _Lord above, this is incriminating. You’ve made a most unrepentant sinner of me_.’”

“Aw. That’s kind of sweet,” Melanie interrupted again, provoking another semi-serious shushing. 

“ _‘I suspect you knew perfectly well of my feelings after our first meeting, and, though I hesitate to admit that I’ve conflated the personal with the professional to such an exorbitant extent, I would be submitting both your keen sensibilities and my own soul to a grievous dose of untruth if I denied that I am quite taken with you_ ,” Tim went on. “‘ _But, at times, I am certain that I never should have told you the truth about what I intend to accomplish with my work_.’” 

“Yeah, he’s probably right,” Melanie acknowledged in a low whisper. 

“‘ _For your own sake, don’t repeat our discussions to anyone. And, for the love of anything you still find holy, do be careful. I implore you to restrain that curiosity of yours, at least until it can be directed towards a proper outlet. Between the two of us and my empty rooms, I suspect we shall be able to come up with something_.’”

Melanie wolf-whistled raucously. 

“ ‘ _I do wish you’d leave Edinburgh for a few days -- your ghastly old tomes won’t disappear if you leave them be for a little while. Come to London, darling, and distract me with something more than memory. Drafting is bleak without your curious suggestions, and I can’t manage to think of your requests without remembering what you look like with both your manner and your cravat undone. Until then, I remain your obedient servant...Robert Smirke._ ’ Letter ends.” 

“Well, that’ll live in my mind forever,” said Melanie, who was lying facedown on the floor.

“He was _getting it_!” said Tim with genuine and absolute surprise. 

“You know what? Good for him,” said Melanie into the unforgiving carpet before turning to look at Tim. “I always thought of him as this crusty old guy, but now that we have verifiable historical proof that he sucked dick, my opinion on Jonah Magnus is really coming around.” 

“Hah,” said Tim. “Coming.” 

***

“Okay,” said Melanie, “let’s do it.” 

“Let’s do...what?” asked Tim, looking up from scrolling through lasagne recipes on Delish.com. 

In response, Melanie firmly patted the dusty box still besmirching Tim’s desk with its fraying corners. 

“And... _what_ are we going to do with it?” 

“Archive them, obviously.” 

“This is an archive. It _is_ archived.” 

“Okay. File them. Organize them. Whatever. Timothy, I fully acknowledge that I know nothing about preserving parchment or whatever, but we need to jump on this opportunity to sort these steamy letters like pros so we can use them to torment Elias like there’s no tomorrow. He’s always like, ‘Our Esteemed Founder’ this, ‘The Forefather Of Our Work’ that...can you imagine how annoyed he’d be if we flooded him with these old-timey sexts?” 

“My God, you’re right,” said Tim, looking downright diabolical. “Okay. How are we sorting them? Chronologically by date? Alphabetically by subject, beginning with F for Fellatio? Or maybe D for Dicked Down...” 

“Haven’t the foggiest. I can’t stress enough that I am _not_ qualified for my job,” said Melanie glibly, cleaning her nails with a pocket knife. 

“Fair and valid. Let’s take a look here…” 

He opened the box and began carefully rifling through the documents. 

“Well, first of all, these need to be separated with tissue paper, or the acid in the paper is going to eat away at-- wait a minute.” 

Gingerly, Tim held a letter up to the light, then raised a second letter. His eyebrows very nearly entered into an affectionate marriage with his hairline. 

“This is a completely different correspondent,” he said. “The handwriting is totally different and -- look, half of this is in German.” 

“Not the half with the phrase _tenderly caress_...” Melanie pointed out snidely, but Tim was peering back into the box. 

“There’s a _third_!” He passed a letter to her. Melanie skimmed it, eyes widening. 

“Okay. Alright. I get it. This isn’t Regency-era correspondence, it’s a season of the Bachelor.” She scanned the letter, smirking. “This one’s very...tender.” 

“Might as well organize alphabetically by correspondent -- or reverse-alphabetically, seeing as we’re on S. We’ll start with Smirke, and then move on to...these fellows. That’ll be convenient for researchers--” 

“If anyone _wants_ to research the minimum of three gay lovers Jonah Magnus had on the line at any given time,” Melanie said. 

“If I were a researcher, I’d be all about that,” said Tim, waggling his brows like a man possessed. 

“Wait. If we’re going in reverse-alphabetical order, wouldn’t we start with…” Melanie peered at one of the recently discovered letters. “...von Closen?”

“No? Maybe? Should it be V for Von or C for Closen?” Tim said, looking like he was having an existential crisis.

“Well, I’m happy continuing with Smirke, so C for Closen?”

“C for Closen. Okay, let’s start recording these other letters.” 

***

Melanie and Tim signaled to each other like two people coordinating an attack in a game of paintball. They quickly moved in, and Tim knocked a _little_ too loudly on Elias’ office door.

“Yes, Tim, Melanie, what is it?” they heard from the other side of the door.

“Oh, don’t you Know why we’re here?” Tim sarcastically replied as he and Melanie entered the office, dramatically taking off the matching sunglasses they’d decided to wear solely because they, personally, thought it would be funny.

“I don’t, as it were. Now, will you tell me why you’re here? I’m busy at the moment,” Elias said, glancing up from the pile of paperwork on his desk and looking over his glasses (which he probably didn’t need) at them.

“We’re here to inform you that we’ve been doing our job,” Melanie declared triumphantly.

“Am I supposed to be _proud_ of you, or something?”

“Quite the opposite, boss,” Tim jumped in.

“I really don’t have all day, just get on with it.”

Melanie and Tim looked at each other conspiratorially as Melanie placed a tape recorder on the desk and hit play.

*** 

“Letter from Robert Smirke, dated 3 April 1815, taken from that dusty box we definitely were not supposed to touch, but did anyway because we know we won’t have to face any consequences for our actions. Melanie King recording because I didn’t want to let Tim have all the fun--”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call reading that letter ‘fun’--” Tim was heard saying.

“You enjoyed every second of it and you know it.”

“No comment.”

“Where was I? Uh… Letter from Robert Smirke, blah blah blah, okay: _‘Dear Mr. Magnus--’_ ”

“Oh, much more formal than the last one, eh?” Tim cheekily interrupted

“' _I feel as though I must start by apologizing for how I so rudely stared before we were introduced. You see, I was simply captivated by the skill and grace with which you carried yourself whilst dancing. I must confess that for the briefest of moments I nearly turned green with envy.’_ Hey, our boy could dance.”

“Nice.”

“Um, letter continues, _‘I may be a coward for doing so, but I asked very few ladies to dance, for I knew I could hardly walk through anything save the most basic of sets without making a fool of myself. Yet you, Mr. Magnus, made not a single error, navigating the entire dance using steps I seldom see executed well anywhere but on the continent -- minuet, was it? Or gavotte? Clearly you know more about this than I do. The ladies with whom you danced were lucky indeed.’_ ”

“Why do I get the feeling he’s jealous of more than just the dancing abilities?”

“Shut it, Tim. Anyway, _‘Forgive me for talking so verbosely about dancing, as it bears little resemblance to the reason we both know I am writing to you. However, I find it entirely necessary, seeing as our conversation was cut short by the promises we had both made, as well as how your proficiency in the art is one of the many things about you I find undeniably intriguing. Though our placement on the floor mostly obscured us from one other, in those few moments I was fortunate enough to be able to see you, you met my gaze every time. No matter where we were in the room, I could always feel your eyes, and I thought of nothing apart from how deeply I wished to speak with you again.’_ ”

There was a small pause before Tim and Melanie could be heard simultaneously shouting, “Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!”

“Letter continues, _‘Please do not take offense when I tell you that when you whisked me away to the garden, I was a bit taken aback by the trajectory of our conversation, but I do not regret a moment of the time we spent together, my dear Mr. Magnus--’_ ”

“Oh,” Tim interjected in a fake-scandalized tone of voice, “‘my _dear_ Mr. Magnus.’”

“Seems like this night escalated pretty quickly, eh? Um, _‘If you still wish to further discuss my research and continue becoming more intimately acquainted as your affection so ardently indicated before our parting, I invite you to dine with me at my residence tomorrow evening at 5 o’clock…. Robert Smirke.’_ Letter ends.” 

“I can’t believe this is how this _started_.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting so emotionally invested in these dead guys’ love affair…” Melanie trailed off in disbelief.

“I know, right? I just want to know what on earth happened in that garden -- actually, no, I take that back. I don’t think I do.”

“I kinda wish I did, though. Knowing what happened has got to be better than being haunted by possibilities of what _might_ have happened. I’m still convinced that we’re going to see that last letter every time we blink until the end of time.”

They could both be heard shuddering.

“Well, I was planning on going day drinking with Basira again,” Melanie started, “but fuck it, I want to record more of these.”

“Cool. I’ll go grab the next one.”

They both began to laugh before--

***

Melanie pressed the stop button; she looked at Tim with a shit-eating grin on her face before they turned to Elias, who looked like he was buffering. No, he didn’t just look like he was buffering, he looked like he needed someone to open Task Manager and end him.

“Right. Well. Well. Right, yes, that certainly was. That absolutely...was…” he eventually sputtered out.

“You alright over there, Elias?” asked Tim, who was all too amused by whatever _this_ was.

“Of course I am, Mr. Stoker, I’m just… _surprised_ by your discovery of these letters,” he replied, sitting so stiffly in his chair it was hard to tell if he was even breathing.

“You? _Surprised_? Nice,” Melanie said, high-fiving Tim.

“As interesting as this all was, please do not waste everyone’s time by continuing to record these.”

“Or what? You’ll fire us? Yeah, right,” Tim scoffed.

“Yeah, isn’t our job supposed to be recording things we find in the archives?” Melanie added.

“I simply mean,” Elias started, clearly agitated but still not moving, “there are much more important things you two could be recording, such as _actual statements_ , seeing as Jon is still away.”

It took all of Melanie’s willpower to not burst out laughing when she noticed that Elias’ face was turning red. He was still wearing that sharp suit of his with those shoes that were way more fashionable than they had any right to be. He still had his dark, greying hair so precisely coiffed that everyone just _knew_ he spent too much time on it in the morning. Everything about him still screamed “bastard” in flashing neon lights, but his blatant vanity and that smug, ominous grin he tended to wear were nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a middle-aged bastard -- an unfortunately stylish middle-aged bastard visibly blushing like a child who just called their teacher “mom” in front of the entire class.

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim said, rolling his eyes as he and Melanie walked out of the office.

“Well, that was weird,” Melanie said the moment she knew she _probably_ wasn’t in earshot.

“He looked so fucking uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t know he was capable of feeling uncomfortable -- actually I didn’t know he was capable of feeling anything.”

“Except evil.”

“Is evil an emotion?” Melanie asked loud enough to elicit a concerned look from a pair of library staff members who passed them in the hallway. “Anyway. What the hell just happened?”

“I have no idea. I thought he’d be annoyed at us for opening the box, but I did not expect him to be so…”

“Weird about it?”

“Yup. That... What do you bet he doesn’t like the idea of being the head of an institute founded by a gay dude?”

“Ugh, I hope not. I don’t need another reason to hate him,” Melanie said, clenching her fists.

If that were the case, it would make sense why he had it out for the entire archives staff, though. As far as Melanie could tell, there were absolutely no straight people in that basement she nominally called her workplace.

“Well, regardless of what his problem is, I really liked seeing him flustered, so wanna keep doing this?” asked Tim.

“I would love nothing more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We, the authors, are collectively going through our villain arcs, so we thought we might as well bring you Jonah's villain arc in real time...  
> Thanks so much for reading! Stick around - it's gonna get weird!!!


	2. Chapter 2

The moment the door shut, Elias slumped forward in his chair: elbows on the desk, head in hands, humiliated. He should have burned those fucking letters a long time ago when he had the chance. It’s not like he was _sentimental_ about them or anything, he just never got around to it… Or at least that’s what he told himself. 

_How did they even find it…_ He couldn’t decide what was worse -- that Tim and Melanie discovered the damn box, that he didn’t See that they discovered the damn box, or that he had forgotten about the damn box altogether.

Though it may have been true that he hadn’t thought about the letters themselves in years, he certainly had not forgotten their subject matter. He could admit to himself that he thought about it from time to time, but it wasn’t like he felt _nostalgic_ … It was just…a pivotal period of time for him… obviously....

***

**_203 years earlier_ ** **_  
_ ** **_London, 1815_ ** ****  
  


Jonah wasn’t in the habit of staying at society functions for longer than he was obligated to, but, to his surprise, that night was shaping up to be rather interesting. 

“There’s someone you really ought to meet,” said Mr. Poole. “Not a scholar like you, but nevertheless he shares your interest in the...the world’s mysteries, shall we say?” 

“You can say _occult_.” 

“Well, I certainly--” 

“It’s hardly out of fashion,” Jonah said. “Half of the ladies I’ve danced with tonight have commenced to telling tales of preternatural occurrences--” 

“That is because you open conversations by asking people whether they have ever seen an apparition,” said Mr. Poole in a state of mild exasperation. Jonah shrugged. 

“Perhaps so, but--” 

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Poole, cutting Jonah off mid-sentence. “Mr. Smirke, this is the...the researcher I was telling you about. Mr. Magnus, this is Mr. Robert Smirke, who will, in every likelihood, become quite a prominent name in British architecture within the next few years.” 

“Very pleased,” said Mr. Smirke, showing himself to be the sort of person who supposed he was so busy that he ought to be afforded the right to communicate only through the first halves of sentences. 

Jonah looked him over, raising a single eyebrow. Mr. Smirke was substantially taller than he was, dark-haired and clear-eyed, precise and efficient in the way he offered his hand to shake Jonah’s. 

“I believe the two of you share similar interests,” said Mr. Poole, swiftly and only somewhat gracefully bowing out. Jonah had the distinct impression that Poole had simply solved the problem of having had two displeasing conversational partners over the course of the evening by encouraging them to talk to one another instead. 

“Similar interests...” said Jonah. He looked up and made such direct eye contact with Mr. Smirke that he nearly looked away on instinct. 

“Yes, rather. You _are_ a researcher of the esoteric and unexplained, are you not?” 

“Are _you_ not remarkably direct?” asked Jonah. In his experience, most people, viewing his particular discipline as vaguely sensational at best and all-out sacreligious at worst, had to be variously enticed, cajoled, or bribed to address the subject. 

“Direct? Of course,” said Mr. Smirke, orderly even in the way he spoke. “How else does anyone expect to get anything done?” 

“Hm,” said Jonah, looking at Mr. Smirke curiously now. It was unusual to find someone who shared both his interests and his practicality. 

“So, Mr. Magnus. What stories are you telling that so trouble poor Mr. Poole?” asked Mr. Smirke. 

“I do not _tell stories_.”

“No, of course not.” Was Mr. Smirke teasing him? Jonah narrowed his eyes. 

“The habit of mine Poole finds disconcerting is rather more one of asking questions,” said Jonah. “I’ve found that it takes only a subtle inquiry or two for people to feel comfortable relating the _strangest_ encounters. I have heard from women utterly sure they’ve seen dressmakers’ mannequins move as if animate, men who awoke from fevered dreams halfway through burying themselves alive. This sort of false life must provide an answer to that last and greatest question -- whether there is something beyond this fleeting existence, whether there is something _more_.”

Jonah was well-aware that he’d shown his hand, and Mr. Smirke was now studying him like a mathematician contemplating Fermat’s infamous Last Theorem upon a chalkboard. “Well, I’m not sure I can tell you much about life after death, Mr. Magnus.” 

“What _can_ you tell me, then?” Jonah took a flute of champagne from the table next to them and drained half of it. 

“That I _do_ believe there is more to this world than meets the eye. More than you or I can see. And that I believe it can be explained. That it _must_ be explained...”

Mr. Smirke broke off to shake a passing acquaintance’s hand, but his eyes barely left Jonah’s. When he spoke again, his voice was urgent and oddly furtive, as if imparting some forbidden piece of knowledge. 

“...Because without such explanation,” Mr. Smirke said, “I would have to acknowledge that what I have seen is truly beyond comprehension...truly beyond control.”

Jonah had asked many improper questions in his lifetime, started many uncouth conversations, and broached many arcane topics, but the fear in Smirke’s eyes then was more genuine than nearly anything he’d ever encountered. 

He hardly registered the question on his lips before he said the words aloud. “What _have_ you seen?” 

Mr. Smirke was silent for a long moment -- one Jonah spent noticing the exact symmetry of his cravat and the fact that the hand not holding his glass was drumming two fingers nervously on the table. 

“Would you believe me, Mr. Magnus, if I said I had reason to believe that there were--” 

Mr. Smirke quickly tapered off as a young lady appeared before Jonah, a merchant’s daughter in a trailing pearlescent gown. 

“If you’ll pardon me,” said Jonah to his conversation partner, whose face was a shade paler than it had been when they began talking, “I believe I owe Miss Wakeley this dance.” 

“Of course,” said Mr. Smirke. 

When Jonah looked back over his shoulder, Mr. Smirke’s face was drawn and shadowed, captivating in its visible fear. 

He could barely contain his curiosity. 

Jonah faced Miss Wakeley on the dance floor, waiting for the music to start. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glimpse of a familiar distinguished profile and turned his head thinking it may have been Mr. Smirke. Unfortunately, he could not see the figure that, for whatever reason, he hoped to be his new acquaintance, due to there being many exceptionally tall gentlemen lined up between them. It was rather silly that he should have thought it were Mr. Smirke, seeing as he hadn’t indicated to Jonah he’d also be dancing this set, but then again, Jonah didn’t stay behind to ask. He shook the thought from his mind and smiled at his perfectly lovely dance partner.

The music began. It was lively, but not horribly fast. It was the type of dance where Jonah would usually try to strike up a conversation with the lady he was dancing with and try to get her to share any strange experiences she might have had. But he wasn’t in the talking mood--not with Miss Wakeley, at least. He could barely make small talk with her, much less ask her any sort of interesting questions. 

He was just too… distracted…

As Jonah and Miss Wakeley promenaded around each other, he found himself looking over his shoulder and saw him -- Mr. Smirke, at the far edge of the floor. He looked miserable. The fear in his eyes that Jonah saw when they spoke seemed to have neither increased nor decreased, but it had changed somehow. Jonah watched the expression on his face, and then, for just a moment, he looked to Jonah and seemed to be at ease. Jonah felt oddly honored that his presence helped to relax someone he’d only known for a few minutes. Mr. Smirke disappeared from his sight again and he turned to smile at the person he was supposed to be focused on.

The formation of the couples broke out into circles of three, leaving Jonah holding hands with Miss Wakeley and a shy young lady who’d been separated from her partner. He looked in the direction he knew Mr. Smirke must have been, and saw that he was in a group with his partner and another gentleman. Suddenly, an image flashed into Jonah’s mind, so vivid he couldn’t ignore it, of himself being the gentleman holding Mr. Smirke’s hand; he imagined what those hands would feel like enveloping his own, squeezing them tight... 

He swiftly inhaled, realizing he’d somehow forgotten to breathe -- that he’d somehow let his mind wander not only to Mr. Smirke, but to not strictly professional thoughts about Mr. Smirke. He reminded himself why they had been introduced: their mutual interest, not the starting of a courtship. Jonah needed Mr. Smirke for his research, he couldn’t risk some sort of misstep that could ruin their ability to form a working relationship. Yet, there was something pulling at him, drawing him in. It was an inconvenience, but he was sure he could push these thoughts aside and continue with his plan.

As the circle rotated around a final time, Jonah looked towards Mr. Smirke again, who soon gazed back at him with a warmer expression than before. Their eyes lingered on each other as the couples reconvened in their initial, boring, lineral starting positions out of view of Mr. Smirke. Somehow, _knowing_ where Mr. Smirke was, but not being able to see him was more agonizing than if he had no idea where in the room he was. Somehow it’d made it harder for Jonah to contain his want -- his _need_ to know what Mr. Smirke had _seen…_ As well as his desire to--

_No,_ he thought to himself. _This isn’t why I’m here._

This was getting ridiculous. These strange, fleeting thoughts of attachment were _not_ what Jonah had expected would come of this evening. He didn’t even expect to be meeting a potential ally. He came here to collect information the way he normally did and have an enjoyable evening -- and to take advantage of the drinks provided, which was part of having an enjoyable evening, Jonah supposed. 

He and Miss Wakeley were rotating around each other side by side, but facing opposite directions, each with an arm across the other’s lower back to hold on. Jonah’s mind once again wandered to Mr. Smirke, and found himself lost in a daydream of it being Mr. Smirke’s arm pressed into the small of his back…

He didn’t fight the fantasy this time. Had it been real, there would have been quite a bit of practicality to it, he assured himself. They could have continued their conversation at least somewhat if they had been paired up, which in turn would have sped things up quite a bit, he justified. But it also would have closed the excruciating distance between them...

He would have turned his head over his shoulder to meet Mr. Smirke’s gaze and to discreetly discuss the macabre. They would have conversed about that which presently cannot be explained, of the darkness that lurks in this world, all within their own little bubble, separate from the effervescent atmosphere of the ball. Their conversation would have paused temporarily as the music changed tempo and the couples changed how they were holding each other -- perhaps Mr. Smirke moving his hand from Jonah’s shoulder down to his hip, or the opposite. He would have felt his breathing catch and his skin tingle from Mr. Smirke’s touch.

_“I hope to establish a research institute in Edinburgh in the future,”_ Jonah would have said. _“Given your in-depth understanding and research of your own, I would be most grateful if you would tell me_ everything _you know of the subject.”_

And in this perfect fantasy, he would have. He would have given Jonah all the details of his research, every encounter he’d had with the preternatural, _everything._ Jonah would’ve simply had to remember the steps of the dance and listen -- no, absorb the knowledge he would have been presented.

This wasn’t a perfect fantasy, though. He didn’t know a fraction of what Mr. Smirke knew, and he was currently in no position to persuade him into divulging his secrets. But the night was young and there was still plenty of time to talk to him. 

Yet this did not dispel the craving within him to know what Mr. Smirke’s body would feel like pressed against his own.

“Mr. Magnus, are you well?” Miss Wakeley said more out of politeness than actual concern.

“Yes, quite,” Jonah replied, pulling himself out of his daydream. “I am merely dwelling on a small business endeavor, I apologize.”

She smiled politely and they returned to dancing in silence. 

Despite his best efforts, it appeared that Jonah had found himself drawn to Mr. Smirke in more ways than one -- so much so that his distraction had drawn attention to himself. He reminded himself that if he could focus until the end of the song he would be able to track down and talk with Mr. Smirke. And he reminded himself that later that evening when he was in the privacy of his own home, he would be able to indulge in and hopefully release some of his more wanton thoughts about Mr. Smirke.

The music finally ended, and Jonah walked Miss Wakeley off the dance floor. Now he had to figure out where Mr. Smirke had wandered off to. But first, he decided to obtain another flute of champagne. He slowly stalked his way around the periphery of the dancefloor, scanning every face in the room for Mr. Smirke and exchanging pleasantries with acquaintances he’d run into along the way. Eventually, Jonah spotted him at the table he’d been at just minutes before. 

He watched as Mr. Smirke put down a recently emptied champagne flute and picked up another one. Mr. Smirke didn’t seem to notice Jonah observing him, and he wasn’t otherwise engaged in conversation, so Jonah decided to approach him.

“I hope you don’t mind continuing our earlier conversation?” 

Sneaking up on people unawares was one of Jonah’s many uncanny talents. It was a well-worn social maneuver of his -- he hit the ground running in conversations, barely allowing his conversational partner a second to recalibrate, throwing them off-kilter in such a way that he quickly found himself with the advantage in those rather tedious, ever-unspoken power politics which so often intruded on casual conversations between fellows. 

Just as Jonah had predicted, Mr. Smirke turned quickly enough to spill the flute of champagne in his hand -- which Jonah pretended he did not notice in the slightest. Smirke looked coolly nonplussed, but there was something truly startled in his eyes. 

“Beg your pardon?” he said. 

“I have been thinking of what you said,” Jonah went on. “I was wondering if you would be willing to step away for a moment.” 

“Certainly.”

“You see, this is a discussion I would rather have in...in relative quiet,” Jonah elaborated, already escorting Mr. Smirke towards the set of French doors that opened onto the garden. 

“Understandable, of course,” said Mr. Smirke, allowing himself to be led away. 

***

Though winter’s bite had largely faded, there was nobody else to be seen traversing the estate’s bowers and fountains. Jonah stood against a stone railing, looking over the meticulously landscaped gardens sprawling out labyrinthine before him. The sounds of the ball were muffled here, the night so still in this part of the gardens that they may as well have been the only people left in the world. 

“Reason to believe there were _what_?” he immediately asked. 

“Pardon?” 

“You said that you had reason to believe that there were -- something, and then I was called away. You must have known that such an allusion would captivate my attention.” 

“Is that a Scottish accent? Mr. Poole said your family was from Edinburgh--” 

“It’s the remainder of one. Why are you changing the subject?” 

“You _are_ difficult to lead astray,” said Mr. Smirke. “I was told that you seemed more insightful than--” 

“I do not wish to impose,” Jonah said, turning away from the pond and towards his interlocutor. “But I would be much honored if you would tell me something— _anything_ of your experiences. I imagine it could help me solve several mysteries of my own.” 

“It is a story I do not like to tell.” The low light rendered Mr. Smirke in grey tones, his eyes searching Jonah’s like a drowning hand grasping for dry land. “Besides, I would not burden you with such a tale.” 

“It is no burden,” Jonah said, so consumed with a hungry, demanding sort of curiosity that he felt like he was dying of thirst. “For I fear I too carry memories of...of things I cannot explain.” 

“I want to make clear my belief that anything can be understood once you’ve found the right set of principles,” said Mr. Smirke, his words belying the fact that he looked downright tormented. 

“Sir, I implore you to--” 

“Why do you want to know?” There was some subtle suspicion in Mr. Smirke’s voice, some conclusion he’d drawn that Jonah wasn’t privy to. 

Jonah leaned towards him. He could hear water flowing from the distant fountains in near-excruciating detail -- he could swear he almost heard Mr. Smirke’s heart beating. 

“Because I have thought for a very long time that I was alone in this work,” he said. “That, perhaps, I was the only one in the world haunted by such...such macabre visitations, but I believe” -- he leaned even closer, close enough to whisper -- “I have found a kindred spirit in you.” 

“Very well,” returned Mr. Smirke, casting his eyes to the side in a gesture somewhere between flusteredness and concession. He raised a hand and absently readjusted his cravat, leaving it slightly askew. “I have seen many curious things, but the first was...was during my Tour, in Rome.”

His other hand was touching Jonah’s on the stone rail. He, unlike Jonah, hardly seemed to notice. 

“It was late at night -- rather unseemly late, and I was making my way back to our lodging, when...I still cannot imagine what might have happened. I turned down some alley and was lost. Not geographically, but...in some way I cannot explain. The streets seemed to stretch on forever, knotting and turning at impossible angles. The buildings piled upon themselves, crowded beyond any and all rationality, and they were _strange_ . I cannot...I cannot describe them but to say that they never should have been able to stand, and that they looked like...like _teeth_. And between those unholy eaves echoed a voice...a voice so discordant I would have believed myself to be dreaming if I did not know full well I was...I was…”

Mr. Smirke looked down, his composed manner distinctly rattled. Whatever had happened in Rome had clearly made an impression that was slow to fade. 

It was only then that he seemed to notice Jonah’s hand over his own. 

“Mr. Magnus,” said Mr. Smirke, and he again slowly met Jonah’s eyes with that stare so clear it was nearly disconcerting. 

His hands were cold to the touch, and, once again, two of his fingers were nervously tapping the banister’s stone surface. Jonah laid two of his own substantially smaller fingers over them, stilling their motion with a gentle but decisive pressure. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of here,” Jonah said, voice gone a touch rough around the edges. 

“Much to the contrary,” Mr. Smirke managed, quickly surrendering to distraction, unable to tear his eyes away from Jonah’s.

Mr. Smirke drew a sharp breath as Jonah ran a thumb over the place where his pulse jumped hectic in his wrist. 

“You never said how you came to be interested in all this,” he murmured. 

_A crowded street. A stranger’s breath on Jonah’s ear. Then, the whispered phrase he wished he could forget: “The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.”_

“I told you,” Jonah said, a little hoarsely.

_Lost youth, lost breath, lost reason. Eyes eternally closed._

A shiver ran up Jonah’s spine, a genuine shock of horror. 

“You told me nothing.” 

“Does not every creature that lives and breathes fear death?” asked Jonah, a perfect non-answer, his eyes caught in Mr. Smirke’s unwavering gaze as helplessly as his soul caught in its hateful mortal trappings.

“There are worse fates,” Mr. Smirke said softly.

Vehement disagreement lingered on the tip of Jonah’s tongue; he bit it back, instead letting his quick grey eyes drift from Smirke’s own eyes to the precise line of his mouth. The air between them seemed a living thing, diminishing by the moment as Jonah paused before leaning in, frozen at the point of no return, and--

“I must go,” Mr. Smirke whispered, looking at a ticking pocket watch and running a hand through his hair as if its meticulous neatness had ever been in danger. “I hope...I very much hope we shall meet again.” 

Jonah nodded. Then, slowly and deliberately, he raised his hands and gently readjusted the other man’s cravat, returning it to its original pristine state with an unhurried, practiced motion. He could hear the breath catch in Mr. Smirke’s throat, felt him lean, almost unconsciously, into the touch.

“I think we will,” Jonah said. 

_And when we do, I’ll make sure that you banish all your infernal propriety,_ he thought, and smiled.

***

Jonah and Mr. Smirke’s dinner went quite smoothly, the food was exceptional and the conversation was both pleasant and informative -- _highly_ informative. They retired to Mr. Smirke’s study and made good on their promises to each other to become better acquainted. 

Perhaps it was the sherry talking, but Mr. Smirke was looking remarkably handsome this evening, sitting on an elegant chaise lounge across from where Jonah sat. Sure, he found Mr. Smirke _very_ handsome when they first met, but there was something about the way he spoke as he explained how he got his start in studying architecture that was especially alluring. Though Jonah was almost certain the attraction he felt was mutual from what transpired between himself and Mr. Smirke in the garden, they were also _not insignificantly_ in their cups at that point… But then there was the way Mr. Smirke wrote to him, which seemed to signify a _considerable_ amount of fondness towards him. Still, Jonah could not help but fear that he had misinterpreted Mr. Smirke’s intentions.

His fear was alleviated as the night progressed when the topic of the conversation switched to himself, and he watched as Mr. Smirke’s expression gradually shifted from engaged to an expression of longing. Jonah continued the conversation, waiting for an opportunity to test his theory.

When an appropriate moment arose, Jonah noted, “I must say I was quite shocked by your letter when you spoke so poorly of your capabilities on the dance floor. I saw absolutely nothing as disastrous as you would have had me to believe, your skills far exceed your harsh judgement of them, Mr. Smirke.” 

“You flatter me.” 

“Surely not; you are more than capable. However, if you wish to become more proficient, I would be more than happy to offer you some advice.” 

“What? As in teaching me?” Mr. Smirke said, leaning forward, intrigued.

“If you so please, yes.”

“You would be dancing with another man.” 

“I have no quarrel with dancing with another man, if you would have me,” Jonah replied playfully. 

“I… I think I would. Now tell me, Mr. Magnus--” 

“Please call me Jonah--” 

“Oh,” Mr. Smirke said, mildly surprised by this request. “Tell me, Jonah, would this be your first time dancing with another man?” 

“Quite certainly not. Once during my university days, nearly all of my classmates turned up to a local social dance; we outnumbered the women two to one. The master of ceremonies had never seen such a thing and allowed us to dance with each other without a second thought,” Jonah said, taking a sip of sherry before nonchalantly adding, “I daresay I believe I actually prefer dancing with other men.”

“Is that so?” 

“I think it is.” 

“Then I would be honored to have you teach me.” 

“And I would be honored to teach you -- although, I think not tonight, as we haven’t the proper light,” Jonah said, noting the few remaining candles that had not completely burned themselves out yet.

“No, I think not,” he replied with an air of disappointment in his voice. “I can scarcely see you over there.” 

“I can move closer if you’d like; I know I certainly prefer being able to see the person with whom I am speaking.” 

Mr. Smirke paused for a moment before smiling and saying, “Yes, do join me.”

_Perfect,_ Jonah thought. He stood up and slowly walked towards the chaise lounge, trying to control his breathing as he felt his heartbeat quicken. He sat down beside Mr. Smirke -- not too close, of course, but close enough to make him wish to be closer. 

Jonah stared at him; neither of them said anything, they merely studied each other in the dim candlelight. Up until this point, he thought that Mr. Smirke’s waistcoat was simply just the same shade of dark blue as his tailcoat, but at this intimate distance, Jonah could see that it had thin vertical stripes in a shade of grey that complimented it very well. It was subtle -- very subtle in comparison to the burgundy waistcoat emboldened by gold embroidery that Jonah chose for this evening, but it was elegant.

“I must say,” Mr. Smirke started, breaking the seemingly endless yet intoxicating silence, “if this is not too forward of me to ask, as you so accused me of the other night--”

“I accused you of no such thing, Mr. Smirke!” he exclaimed jokingly. “For ‘accuse’ implies I found your directness distasteful, which I did not. Please be as direct with me as you’d like, so long it does not grievously wound me.”

Mr. Smirke laughed at Jonah’s remarks. He may have looked stern and sharp, but seeing him this way, relaxed and enjoying himself, really suited him. Jonah wanted to reach up and put a hand on Mr. Smirke’s face. He wanted to run his fingers across the lines that formed when he smiled and feel the faint hint of stubble that resided upon his cheek. He wanted to bury his hands in Mr. Smirke’s hair and he hoped that Mr. Smirke would do the same to him, and maybe, just maybe he’d--

“Well, then,” Mr. Smirke began. “Why is someone so dashing as yourself not already married? You must have seen the way the ladies were looking at you at the ball.” 

“Hm, yes. I am not married, you see, for I simply have no interest in marriage. I think it would not suit me,” Jonah said, looking down. 

“Surely, a man as charming as yourself would make a fine husband.” 

“ _This_ ,” he replied, glancing up, “most certainly is flattery, Mr. Smirke--” 

“Robert--” 

“ _Robert_ ,” said Jonah affectionately, shifting slightly closer, “I can assure you that you do not know just how dreadful I would be as a husband.”

“Perhaps. But I do find you _terribly_ charming,” he said, moving in closer.

“You are mistaken,” Jonah responded, leaning forward, looking into his eyes, “for I believe it is _I_ who is the one being charmed right now.” 

“Is it not possible that we should both be charmed?” 

“Yes,” he began, his face distressingly close to the other man’s, “I believe it may be.”

His breathing became heavier the longer he gazed at Mr. Smirke -- at Robert... He felt himself start to lean in further in hopes that _possibly,_ for a fleeting moment, their lips might touch, but he stopped himself. He was about to say something when Robert put a hand on his shoulder, keeping it there for a moment before kissing him slowly. 

Jonah’s eyes fluttered open as their lips parted. The room was significantly darker than it had been mere moments ago -- it appeared another candle had gone out, leaving them illuminated by only one candle that appeared to be on its deathbed. 

This evening had been everything Jonah wanted, and now he wanted more. He stared at Robert, placing a hand on his face in the fading light and kissed him again, deeper, and even slower than before. They kissed again and again until their lips were raw and the room was completely dark, leading them to have to _feel_ it out as they grasped for the other’s waistcoats...

Ultimately Jonah stayed the night, waking up the next morning beside Robert. He wasn’t the _best_ lover Jonah had ever had, but it made for a fun evening, and it had been pretty good -- really good, actually… Okay, perhaps Robert was one of the _better_ lovers he’d had… But he assured himself that that wasn’t the main reason why he so eagerly awaited Robert writing to him again.

***

**_London, 2018_ **

Annoyance overcame Elias as he realized he’d lost something like ten minutes thinking about the past. His annoyance turned to frustration as he then realized he’d gotten so distracted (again) that he couldn’t See what Tim or Melanie were up to. 

_Goddammit…_ he thought, massaging his temple.

This was not supposed to happen. They were not supposed to find that box, but once they did, he was not supposed to let them have such a field day with it. He couldn’t help but feel like The Eye was laughing at him for not being able to keep a close enough watch over two of his employees. It wasn’t even like their contempt for him was a secret, Melanie had tried to poison him, for fuck’s sake. He should have known better.

Now he had no idea where they had wandered off to or what sort of havoc they could have been wreaking in the time since they left his office. They -- well, everyone working in the archives, but Tim and Melanie in particular were impeding his plans enough as it was; he seriously did _not_ need another variable in the equation…

Elias sighed.

He _really_ should have burned those fucking letters when he had the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: in light of eps 192, we've retconned jonah's eye color much to the disgruntlement of the author with grey eyes and an old-fashioned haircut who's been projecting all their weird gender feelings onto this character and felt so deeply personally attacked by this development


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you have a second?” asked Melanie, poking her head through Tim’s office door. 

“No, I’m actually really busy,” Tim said, totally deadpan as he turned his computer slightly to reveal that he was playing Minecraft. 

“Not anymore. You have an extremely important meeting in my office, right now, immediately.” 

“Seems fair,” he said. 

***

Because there were too few archival employees and too much Institute basement, each of them had their own office. Melanie’s was in perennial disarray: papers strewn about, denim and leather jackets flung over chairs and across filing cabinets, a small stain on the floor that looked very much like it might’ve been blood. 

“Okay, what?” asked Tim gamely. 

“I think you should take a look at this next letter.”

“Oh,” he said. Seeing the look on Melanie’s face, he immediately continued: “Oh, _no_.” 

“Oh, yes.” She gently slid a weathered piece of parchment across the desk towards him. 

Tim skimmed the document and immediately began aging at three times the normal human rate. 

“Hey Melanie,” he said in what amounted to a stage whisper, “D’you think Elias is watching _right now_?” 

“I sure hope he is,” she said, a belligerent gleam in her eyes. 

*** 

Elias sat at his desk, glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose as if attempting to stave off a migraine. 

He was usually the person getting somebody else into a damnable conundrum. Very rarely in the last many, many, many, many, _many_ years had Elias been in a damnable conundrum himself. 

As he saw it, he had two options. He could sit here, let Melanie and Tim blow off steam, and submit himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Or he could walk into Melanie’s office, whip out a flamethrower, and annihilate the contents of that box faster than either of them could say “reckless endangerment of employees” (a feat which, given the amount they’d both practiced that particular sentence, was fairly impressive). 

The second alternative was, he had to confess, unbelievably alluring. Unfortunately, especially given how important it was to keep Jon in the dark, making the wrong move now could undo decades -- _centuries_ of careful calculation. It would be less than ideal if anyone came to understand his particular...emotional stake, so to speak, in those letters too soon. Far less than ideal indeed. 

So, as was his habit, he reconciled himself to Watching and waiting. 

***

**_London, 1817_ **

Given the city’s dour character, a _very_ compelling set of circumstances were required to elicit Jonah’s presence back in London. 

Iron-heavy fog hung between too-dim streetlamps, submerging the city in shroud-like gloom. London was a confusion of noise and mud, its lack of clarity more jarring to him now than ever. 

Jonah sighed impatiently, turned away from the street, and knocked a curt three times on the door before him. 

It swung open; the gangly clerk on the other side looked at him askance. 

“I’m Jonah Magnus,” he said. “Calling for Mr. Smirke.” 

“Just a moment, sir.” 

It really was just a moment -- the clerk returned almost immediately with his boss. 

“You came,” said Robert, voice caught between his customary coolness and something warmer than congeniality. 

“Of course,” said Jonah. “May I speak with you upstairs?” 

***

“You look tired,” Robert said, closing the studio door crisply behind them. 

“Charmingly complimentary, Robert, as always,” Jonah scoffed, but he raised a still-gloved hand to the shadow under his eyes. 

“I intend no unkindness, but you know that I...” He paused for a long time, looking for a precise word. 

“You worry.” 

“I don’t _worry_. I know perfectly well that you’re -- that is, it so happens that our work is--” 

“You _worry_ about me. How sweet.” 

Jonah closed the space between them in two quick steps.

“I can quite hold my own, you know,” he whispered. Jonah locked his gravity-well eyes on Robert’s, reaching up to slowly, gently tracing a still-gloved hand from jaw’s angle to Adam’s apple.

He broke the tension just as easily, letting his eyes flick away to the plans laid out on the drafting table before them, letting his hand rest on Robert’s shoulder. 

“What are you waiting for,” Jonah said, a bit goading. “Aren’t you going to show me the latest designs? I came all this way for a reason, you know.” 

He watched as something in the question made Robert shudder. Jonah bit his lip, let his eyes widen with a certain sort of surprise. He still wasn’t used to that -- to the power hidden in his words, the quiet query’s unintentional incision. 

Apparently he still wasn’t good enough at it to force an answer, either, because Robert shook off whatever had taken hold of him and chuckled. “Yes,” he said, “I know.” 

Before either drew breath again, Robert bent to kiss Jonah, one hand at the small of his back and the other pulling hard enough at Jonah’s hair to elicit a gasp. 

“I wasn’t in Edinburgh for _that_ long,” said Jonah, raising his brows with a blushing, breathless sort of sarcasm. 

“Long enough,” said Robert, something of a smile lighting his eyes. 

***

If Jonah was being honest, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t felt the Watcher’s call. It was only recently, now that he understood, now that he _Knew_ , that he had come to embrace the path laid out before him. 

In any normal situation, bent over the table as he was, one of Robert’s hands over his mouth to muffle the half-spoken pleas which might otherwise bleed from his lips and the other tangled in his hair, Jonah certainly wouldn’t have possessed the faculties to take up a pencil and make a single subtle, slight adjustment to the architectural plans lying ignored next to him. 

This was not a normal situation. Jonah had entered a new partnership now, and the Eye had its demands. It was his patron, he knew, which animated his right hand while the left clutched at the table’s edge. It was his patron, he knew, which told him to trace, erase, refine. 

If Robert noticed anything amiss, it was certainly not indicated in his unbroken litany of sweetly-whispered curses. Something told Jonah that he’d be able to do a great many things without being observed if he so wished. 

_There’s a very keen delight_ , Jonah observed vaguely, between crying out hoarsely and taking leave of his senses entirely, _in Seeing rather than being seen_. 

***

**_London, 2018_ **

Melanie sat cross legged, slowly spinning around in an office chair as Tim mentally prepared himself to read this latest letter. Melanie had only briefly glanced at this one, but from what she saw, she _knew_ it was going to be a good one -- or rather, a very _very_ bad one. Tim placed a tape recorder on the desk and sat down, forcefully exhaling like a theater kid going balls to the walls on a vocal warmup exercise.

He turned the recorder on.

“Letter from Robert Smirke, dated 18 May 1817, taken from the Jonah Magnus Snail Mail Sext Collection, as absolutely no one calls it--”

“TIMOTHY!” Melanie shriek-laughed.

“Was that going too far?”

“Absolutely not, please continue.”

“Alright, then. Letter begins, _‘My darling Jonah, I have spent the past week thinking about what you said and I have come to the conclusion that you were right: I do worry about you. I worry that my telling you of the Entities will lead you to some terrible end, that I may one day bear the burden of your fate--’_ ”

“Absolutely no drama here,” Melanie sarcastically interrupted, opening a little bag of popcorn that she was especially glad she decided to pack today.

Tim quietly snorted before continuing, “ _‘Please, for the sake of all that you consider sacred, take care. If not for yourself, then for me; you are toying with dangerous forces and I cannot lose you in some horrendous way. You know enough by now to know how easy it is for one to fall victim to one of the Fourteen.’_ Ugh, don’t we know it…”

“Big fucking mood,” Melanie mumbled through the impressively large amount of popcorn in her mouth.

“Letter resumes, _‘I wake in the middle of the night terrified that something has happened to you. So please, I implore you -- I beg of you to be careful. I apologize for how disorganized this letter may be, I have been utterly distracted as of late. I attempt to banish you from my thoughts so I may work in peace, but no matter how hard I try, my thoughts always drift towards you, the striking auburn color of your hair--’_ ”

“He was a _ginger?!”_ Melanie blurted out. “This changes everything. I don’t know _how_ it changes everything, but it does.” 

Tim stared at her like the physical embodiment of a dozen question marks all in different fonts.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna try that again. _‘I attempt to banish you from my thoughts so I may work in peace, but no matter how hard I try, my thoughts always drift towards you, the striking auburn color of your hair in the morning light, the sensation of your hands interlaced with mine. I cannot stress enough how you have consumed my life both personally and professionally, and for all I want so desperately to curse your name, I cannot, for I am much too fond of you to speak ill of you. As I sit in the solemnness of my drafting room, my mind fills the silence with your voice, our conversations, the almost musical sound of your sighs reverberating throughout the room, the way you spoke my name when all other words escaped you.’_ ” 

Tim’s eyes got extremely wide and he put his hand over his mouth before setting the letter down and pushing himself away from the desk. Over the course of recording all of these letters, Melanie had seen Tim have some pretty strong reactions to the things his favorite architect had written, but this time he truly looked like he’d _seen some shit._

“What is it?” Melanie asked, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

Tim scooted back, ungracefully fighting a broken wheel on the chair the whole way. “Letter continues, _‘Oh, how often I do think of the pretty sight you made as you yielded to me upon the table that night. And oh, how often I do think of the way I, too, yielded to you. The shades of purple and red which linger upon my knees are a continuous reminder of your--’_ ”

Melanie’s brain jumped to the worst possible options for how that sentence could continue--

“ _‘--sway over me.’_ ”

_Oh thank god,_ she thought, relieved she hadn’t been accosted by some old-timey euphemism for “dick”.

“ _‘As you know by now, I value having some sense of control over the activities I partake in, yet there is something about the way you looked at me that moved me to do your bidding.’_ ”

“Vers rights!”

“Yup…” Tim trailed off, shaking his head as though that would somehow rid him of the image that Melanie assumed had taken up residence in his head as well as hers. “Letter resumes, _‘Though it has been but a week since I last enjoyed your company, the pangs of your absence pierce my very soul. Every morning upon my waking I look to where you recently lay, and feel an overwhelming emptiness. I look in the mirror to see the now-fading marks I was left with that I must obscure by carefully positioning my cravat, and I am overcome with nostalgia I should not yet harbor.’_ ”

Melanie obnoxiously and knowingly waggled her eyebrows in Tim’s direction.

“ _‘I close my eyes and all I see is you; the memory of your gaze causes me to shudder, yet the memory of your embrace fills me with warmth. I feel utterly foolish pleading with you to return to me so soon after we have parted, but you must know how deeply I miss you when you are away. Oh, how I loathe the ways in which you have reduced me to behaving like a wanton youth!’_ ”

“Oohoohoo, a _wanton_ youth!” Melanie said like a fancyass person from a BBC costume drama.

“Melanie, please, I’m _so_ close to getting through this. Letter once again, and hopefully for the last time, resumes. _‘I find I do my best work on Millbank while in your presence, so I shall use this as justification for formally requesting you return to me at your earliest convenience. But until then, please write to me, my dear, and assure me that you are safe and well. Sincerely and forever yours...Robert.’_ Letter ends...”

“Now that’s one hell of a booty call,” Melanie said, leaning back in her chair.

“That was… so much…”

“I’m not gonna lie, I think this was my favorite one yet,” Melanie barely managed to get out before dissolving into laughter.

Tim looked at Melanie like she’d personally sent a bird to take a dump on his head. “Why?!”

“Vers rights?” she wheezed.

Tim sighed and turned the tape recorder off with an unmistakable click. 


	4. Chapter 4

**_London, present day_ **

“ARE! YOU! READY! FOR! BOY TOY NUMBER TWO!!!” yelled Tim as loud as he possibly could, causing Melanie to astral project to Saturn. A late and somewhat rowdy night out with Basira had left her skull feeling somewhat like the shell of a hard-boiled egg. 

Melanie groaned. 

“Okay, okay, sorry. I’ll read it really quietly. But you need to know something about this letter right away.” 

“What?” groused Melanie. 

“It’s dated the same year as the last one from Smirke.” 

“So?” 

“Same year, _different guy_?” Tim said. 

“Oh my God, he was playing the field.” This news did genuinely perk her up a bit. 

***

Tim only made it as far as reading the date written on the letter before he scrunched his nose and brought it closer to his face. Melanie watched his eyes repeatedly scan over the first sentence, mouthing the words, although instead of the contents of the letter, most of the words he was mouthing were “what,” “the,” and “fuck.” Melanie turned the tape recorder off. There was no point recording confused silence.

“I give up,” Tim sighed. “You try reading this,” he added, handing the letter to Melanie.

“Sure,” she said, taking it from him.

Melanie tried to read it, but her eyes immediately glazed over. Whoever this von Closen dude was had the most ridiculously stylized handwriting she’d ever seen. It was just so...curly -- which _is_ the whole point of cursive, but this was on another level -- half the letters looked like they were waving ribbons around as part of a rhythmic gymnastics routine. It was like the penmanship was putting on a drag show and Melanie was an unsuspecting grandma who’d been pulled up on stage for audience participation.

She handed the letter back to Tim without saying a word.

They spent the next ten-odd minutes trying to decipher it together. With their combined effort, they thought they were able to figure out approximately every third word, but after seeing a word that looked disconcertingly like “roomba,” they began questioning everything and revised it down to being every _fifth_ word that they could figure out. From this, they came to the almost comforting conclusion that this wasn’t an issue with them, but rather that this letter was completely illegible. 

That being said, Melanie still couldn’t help but feel like she’d never fucking learned how to read.

“I have an idea,” she said, beginning to dart towards the door of Tim’s office before her body reminded her that it’d declared war on her after she had gotten the brilliant idea to drink a chocolate martini after...she couldn’t remember how many tequila shots, but it was _enough._

She walked through the Archives, being mindful to not look at the aggressively bright fluorescent lights above her, and eventually found Basira passed out on a decrepit couch with a book over her face. 

“Hey, Basira,” Melanie whispered in hopes of waking her up gently.

Basira continued to lay there.

“Hey, Basira,” she repeated, slightly louder.

A pained groan escaped from Basira, but otherwise she didn’t stir.

Melanie leaned down and lightly tapped Basira’s shoulder, “Hey, Basira.”

Basira startled awake. “What?! Ugh…” she groaned as the book slid off her face, exposing her directly to the light fixtures that Melanie had been so careful to avoid.

“Tim and I need your help with something.”

“Ugh...alright,” she replied, momentarily looking off balance as she sat up.

On the walk back to Tim’s office, Melanie noticed that Basira was still wearing her clothes from the night before, which was fair. Melanie had managed to change clothing, but she hadn’t taken off her makeup and woke up with eyeliner and mascara smeared everywhere. In her defense, she rarely wore makeup and forgot she had it on, but that was no excuse for her half assed attempt to blend out her eyeliner instead of taking it off when she woke up. 

At first glance, they both looked relatively okay. But on closer inspection, they looked like they hadn’t successfully made it back to their respective flats but instead had rolled out of a dumpster behind a department store that morning.

“Ah, perfect,” Tim said upon Melanie and Basira’s arrival.

“So, you needed help with something?” Basira asked.

“Yes!” Melanie exclaimed, remembering why she’d tracked down Basira in the first place. “Can you read cursive?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“But can you read absurdly flamboyant cursive?”

“...Define ‘absurdly flamboyant.’”

“Can you read this?” Tim clarified, handing her the letter.

Basira got a strange look on her face as she started reading it before looking up and saying, “Yeah… It’s definitely...excessive, but yeah.”

“Holy shit…” Tim said incredulously.

“This thing looks ancient,” Basira remarked, inspecting the paper. “Is this a statement?”

“Of sorts,” Melanie replied elusively.

Tim snorted.

“Alright, are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Melanie and Tim looked at each other before turning to Basira with equally mischievous smiles on their faces. 

***

It seemed that Melanie and Tim had made something of a habit of recording these letters -- well, “something of a habit” was more than a little bit of an understatement. Recording these letters is basically all they’d been doing that even slightly resembled archival work. They’d come into work (frequently late and/or hungover), do absolutely nothing of importance, do a few dramatic readings from this box of regretful relics, and then bring Elias the tapes. Sometimes they’d play them right then and there in his office, but other times they’d spare him and just leave them with him. 

Regardless, he always listened to them. He just _had_ to listen to them, but it was significantly less mortifying when he was alone. Although, after returning from lunch with the library staff one day to find a gift box with a gigantic bow and a label slapped on it that simply read “:)”, he wasn’t quite sure. 

He knew -- not Knew, just knew this was going to be a day that they were going to make him listen to a tape in their presence. There was no way in hell that Basira would pass up this opportunity now that she’d been looped into this ridiculous scheme. It was bad enough when it was just Melanie and Tim, but now Basira was involved in it too -- and now all three of them know about Albrecht...

***

**_London, 1814_ **

“Two hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I have three?” The artifact behind him was a wildly unfashionable writing-desk, its surface noticeably scarred by a bullet hole and surrounding scorch marks. It’d been aboard some ship or other, one of the few artifacts salvaged when the vessel went to a watery grave courtesy of Napoleon’s navy. 

“Three,” Jonah called. With a semi-uncanny sense he seemed to have developed only somewhat recently, he was acutely aware that someone was staring at him. He didn’t have to look -- he knew who he’d see. The chestnut-haired gentleman across the aisle, dressed like he must be a gentleman of some standing, a German accent roughening his _r_ s and swallowing his _j_ s, had been nearly outbidding him all evening. 

“Three hundred. Do I hear another offer?” the auctioneer asked. The room rang quiet. 

“Sold,” said the auctioneer, nodding in Jonah’s direction. 

Jonah looked directly at his adversary and smirked. 

***

**_York, two months later_ **

Jonah loved bookshops, and he had a particular soft spot for this one. It was dark, dusty, inviting -- and the owner had something of a penchant for collecting first editions. He’d gone into the back room to look for a volume Jonah had put on hold during his last visit to York. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” 

Jonah turned around abruptly, and he almost didn’t feel the smile slide onto his face. The same gentleman who’d nearly outbid him at auction some time ago. Often, the artifacts Jonah collected appeared to others as...well, as junk -- it had been both surprising and intriguing to find himself in a close fight. 

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” the man said. “You were--” 

“Mr….von Closen?” said the bookseller, suddenly appearing behind the counter, reading from a scrap of paper with a furrowed brow. “You’re looking for...goodness. _The Stargazer’s Companion_?” 

“That’s the one,” said von Closen cheerfully. Jonah stared unabashed, a little smile creeping into his eyes if not onto his face. 

“Forgive my surprise, sir,” said the bookseller. “It’s one of the oldest books that’s ever passed through this clearing-house, you see. Hand-lettered, hand-bound...not as valuable as a Gutenberg Bible, but not too far off, either.” 

“Mr. Magnus?” asked the bookseller’s partner, appearing from the backroom, an expression of distaste on his face, holding a book neatly wrapped in brown paper. “ _Nine Hundred and Two Uses for Marrow and Teeth_?” 

Jonah thanked the (slightly perturbed) booksellers, paid his (sizable) bills, and headed for the door, doffing his hat slyly towards von Closen, satisfied to find the other man’s eyes following him with nearly as much curiosity as he himself felt. 

_The Stargazer’s Companion,_ thought Jonah. _I’d like to get my hands on that._

***

_**London, 1815** _

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” 

Jonah turned abruptly. He recognized that voice.

“Mr. von Closen, I presume,” Jonah said. “What brings you to Mr. Locke’s estate sale?” 

“His death, unfortunately,” said von Closen, his somber tone belying a certain wry sparkle in his eyes. “Seeing you at something like this...it makes sense.” 

“How so?” 

“You seem to appear every time I’m seeking information about...obscure things. Almost as if you’re a ghost yourself.” 

Jonah shook his head, smiling now. “Just chasing them, I’m afraid.” 

Von Closen laughed. 

Jonah left the estate sale with a mirror cracked nearly to opacity and, in his pocket, a scrap of paper bearing an address where he might send a letter to Albrecht von Closen. 

***

**_**May 1815,  
** **** **Bavaria**_**

Even Jonah had to admit that running off to the Continent mere days after bedding Robert was not in the best of taste, but he had seemed quite understanding seeing as Jonah’s travel plans had been set in stone for the better part of the year. But Jonah had promised to come back to visit before the summer was over, and he had no intentions of passing up the opportunity to see _more_ of Robert.

The trip to Bavaria was horridly dull. Yes, it was true that Jonah had packed more books than clothing. And yes, a lot of the scenery was quite lovely...really lovely, actually -- neither England nor Scotland had mountains like the ones Jonah saw on his journey -- but there was only so long Jonah could go with only the stagecoach driver to converse with.

Eventually, he made it to the estate of Albrecht von Closen, and oh, was he a sight for sore eyes. The man was nearly a decade his elder, and yet he had the spirit of someone Jonah’s age -- and the fashion sense as well. When Mr. von Closen greeted Jonah upon his arrival, he wore a waistcoat and tailcoat combination garish enough to almost rival Jonah’s. _Almost_.

“It is so wonderful of you to finally be joining us at our home, Herr Magnus!” von Closen said, his wife, Clara, at his side as he vigorously shook Jonah’s hand.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. von Closen,” Jonah replied before nodding and courteously adding, “Mrs. von Closen.”

Jonah had barely gotten himself settled in before he was called down for dinner. Perhaps it was the fact that Jonah had been travelling so long that he had had very few half decent meals in the past month, but the Spätzle he was served was absolutely exquisite. Not to mention the beer -- he did not take Mr. von Closen for the sort of man who would keep a keg of beer in his cellar, but then again, there were a lot of things he didn’t take Mr. von Closen for. That was certainly one of the reasons why he was so adamant about making his acquaintance: he was an enigma, a pleasant, kind, and _very_ entertaining enigma.

About a week into his stay with the von Closens, Jonah found himself quite at home, quickly becoming friends with his hosts. He had many a fascinating conversation with both of them about a wide array of topics -- well, he _mostly_ talked with Mr. von Closen. Mrs. von Closen was less inclined to talk seeing as she was uncomfortable with her English skills, though they were more than acceptable (and certainly _much_ better than Jonah’s ability to speak German). But regardless, the conversations were thoroughly satisfying, and Mr. von Closen was more than happy to not only listen to but engage with Jonah as he blathered on about his fascination and research into the esoteric.

Oh, how wonderful it was to make more friends who shared common interests with him!

On this particular evening, Jonah found himself swept up in a good-natured yet vicious game of cards with Mr. von Closen while Mrs. von Closen demonstrated her talent on the pianoforte. The disconnect between the soft, soothing music and the mental war between Jonah and Mr. von Closen honestly would have been quite amusing if Jonah weren’t trying so desperately to win. 

He glanced down at his cards and then up to Mr. von Closen, whose pleasant expression was the same as it had been for a vast majority of the game. It was impossible for Jonah to know for _sure_ if he had the better hand given the way his opponent’s mild expression did not shift, but using rough estimations based off of what cards had already turned up, Jonah had reason to believe he would win within the next few turns. 

As he had expected, he _did_ win the game, but it was not simple. He and Mr. von Closen were very closely matched in skillset and wit, making Jonah’s victory come down merely to probability.

“It seems you have beaten me, Herr Magnus; well done,” Mr. von Closen said, gesturing to the cards laid out on the table which brought forth his defeat.

“Thank you, Mr. von Closen. You were an exceptionally formidable adversary and I must commend you for it.”

“Please, your praise is unjustified. I would challenge you to a rematch, but I believe you would beat me yet again. Besides, I am much more partial to our conversations, are you not?” the older man said playfully, a sparkle of _something_ in his eyes.

“Yes, how I do enjoy speaking with you,” replied Jonah pleasantly.

Had Jonah not known better, he would have thought Mr. von Closen was flirting with him. By God, if Mrs. von Closen were not in close proximity, Jonah would have thought he was flirting with him. But she was _right there_ , and Mr. von Closen, for all his eccentric behavior, was much too smart to do something quite so outrageous, surely. It was utterly preposterous! 

Then Mr. von Closen reached across the small table they were sitting at and put his hand on Jonah’s, giving it a caring squeeze. “Shall we relocate to somewhere more comfortable and talk where we can give each other our full attention?” Mr. von Closen suggested, looking at him with that same _something_ in his eyes...but more intense now. 

Jonah reminded himself that while he _did_ have a decent understanding of Bavarian customs, he did not know _everything_ , and chose to believe that this was a perfectly common interaction amongst friends.

“Yes, I think we shall,” Jonah responded eventually.

Mr. von Closen brought Jonah’s hand close to him and kissed it, meeting his gaze the whole time before saying, “Then follow me.”

Now, _this_ seemed to go beyond the realm of reasonable doubt. 

_Hm, I’ll play along with this,_ Jonah thought, too curious to _not_ unmask Mr. von Closen’s motives, but also oddly receptive to the idea of Mr. von Closen making advancements towards him.

Jonah followed him to a sofa, still in the same room, but further away from the pianoforte than the table had been. Jonah could not have told anyone what they talked about, the topic of their discussion was unimportant, meaningless, but what _was_ important was _how_ they talked. The way Mr. von Closen only broke eye contact to look up and down Jonah’s body, his eyes lingering on Jonah’s lips, the way he leaned closer to show interest despite the conversation being utterly uninteresting. Jonah mirrored this behavior; it was terribly fun to flirt with Mr. von Closen and he just _had_ to know how far this would go.

How far this would go, as it were, was Mr. von Closen whispering, “I rather enjoy your company,” before giving him the smallest, gentlest kiss, Mrs. von Closen’s music still filling the room.

“Huh,” Jonah half-laughed, half-sighed, trying to compose his thoughts. 

“I am sorry, was that not to your liking?”

“No, I’m just….a little bit startled -- your wife is but feet away from us!”

Mr. von Closen wasn’t _not_ attractive, Jonah just wasn’t expecting to be kissed, and _were_ he expecting it, he shouldn’t have thought it’d happen this quickly, nor be this...delightful? He should have been thinking about what he’d left behind in London -- who he’d left behind in London, but all he could think of was the question eating away at the back of his mind which was _what are his intentions?_

“Ah, yes,” Mr. von Closen began. “Well, Clara and I, we have what one may call an arrangement. We love each other very much, but we also allow each other the freedom to associate ourselves with whomever we want.”

Now this was truly fascinating.

Jonah was going to ask a meaningful question, but before he could, he found himself simply saying, “Oh?” 

“You do not believe me, Herr Magnus?”

“I do, but--”

“Clara,” Mr. von Closen called out.

The music abruptly stopped as Mrs. von Closen turned to reply, “Ja?”

Again, Jonah’s German was shaky at best, but he was able to gather that the couple were talking about him in reference to romantic attachments. The conversation then turned to something about -- well, Jonah understood the words individually, but had no idea what they meant strung together. However, from the way the couple laughed and looked at him, he knew it _must_ have been salacious in nature.

Once the laughing subsided, Mrs. von Closen turned to Jonah and said, “Herr Magnus, you may kiss my husband if you so please. Do whatever you wish to him, you are more than welcome.”

Jonah sat there blinking, trying to absorb what Mrs. von Closen said to him. It appeared he miscalculated and actually _hadn’t_ answered the question of how far this would go. It was especially curious that she had said he could do whatever he wished _to_ Mr. von Closen rather than _with_ him. This could have been something related to the language barrier present, but Jonah suspected that it wasn’t, and he _needed_ to know what that entailed.

“Danke, Frau von Closen,” Jonah eventually blurted out.

She nodded at him and returned to playing the pianoforte.

“Well then,” said Jonah, incredulously.

“ _Well_ then,” Mr. von Closen said, lust in his voice. 

They fell silent, Jonah examining Mr. von Closen, whose amorous expression only became more pronounced the longer they went without speaking. What a peculiar turn this evening had taken. It was rare for Jonah to be completely caught off guard, and normally he resented when it happened, but this was genuinely amusing.

“Care to join me for a walk?” Mr. von Closen said, getting up from the sofa. “There is something I want to show you.”

“At this hour?”

“The sun has not yet set, and besides, tonight is a full moon. I assure you there will be more than enough light,” Mr. von Closen said, offering his hand to Jonah.

Jonah considered this for a few seconds and then, without asking for details about where they would be going or why Mr. von Closen wanted so badly to take him there, he accepted Mr. von Closen’s hand and said, “Then it would be my pleasure to accompany you--”

***

A loud knock and hushed giggling pulled Elias’ mind back to the present. He knew what was going to come next, and all he could do was just let it happen.

“Come in,” Elias said reluctantly.

The three nuisances who were _technically_ his employees burst through his office door.

“We come bearing news of another correspondent to our distinguished, venerated founder!” Tim said in the most painfully theatrical way possible, causing Elias’ blood pressure to rise at an alarming rate. 

“We also brought Basira,” Melanie added.

“Hey,” Basira said, plainly.

“Now, _really_ , Detective,” Elias said, glaring at her, “I thought you were above this.”

“Yeah, apparently not,” she replied, showing him the tape in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while writing this, our google doc acquired a mind of its own and nearly swallowed half the text. we take this as evidence of its cursèd nature -- and yet our folly continues!
> 
> update: we just fixed a typo that created a big ol' timeline whoopsie, apologies for any previous confusion


	5. Chapter 5

**_London, 2018_ **

“Okay, let’s go,” said Basira, her voice crackling slightly over the recording. 

Tim cleared his throat theatrically for roughly 45 seconds. 

“' _My dearest Jonah_ ,'” he read at last. “' _I have heard many of your persuasion -- British, that is --'_ ” 

Melanie cracked up in the background. 

“' _\--say that German seems a harsh tongue. I do not believe that to be the case, but I do seem to recall your particular annoyance at not being able to understand each and every language on Earth in such detail that I thought it prudent to carry my good wishes to you'--_ there’s a word added here, can you--” 

“' _Mostly_ ,'” read Basira after a few moments of silence. 

“Thanks. _'Mostly in English_ ,'” Tim continued. “' _Summer is waning now. In truth, it began a slow walk to its wintry grave the moment I saw the last of you.'_ ” 

“The drama!” Melanie interjected. 

“The DRAMA,” Tim agreed. “' _How glad I am that you were finally able to visit Clara and me; I know the journey is an arduous one and not made lightly.'_ ” 

A loud crunching sound in the background indicated that Melanie was once again eating Doritos in the archives. Their prolific red and yellow dyes could easily corrupt documents, but recently each time anyone had told her to put the chips away Melanie had literally wheeled in the opposite direction -- just one more example of the exponential increase to workplace chaos which had taken place since she’d acquired a pair of Heelys. 

“'Y _ou and I could talk around anything forever, so I will be plain_ ,'” Tim read. 

“I seriously doubt he’s going to be plain,” said Melanie through thick crunching. 

“' _T_ _here is a place not far from here where crumbling stones bloom from the earth, a stand of firs gathered round in solemn witness. I think of you each time I pass the graveyard, for in my mind’s eye those old edifices hum with your voice still.'_ ” 

Tim squinted at the letter. “Okay, this is where it changes. Can you Google Translate this bit?” 

The quick clicking of computer keys crackled percussively through the recorder. “Uh, yeah,” Basira said. “It says…oh, but this word is different. And it would actually be...this would actually be _'throat_.'” 

“ _What_?” said Melanie over continued crunching. 

“Right. Okay,” said Tim, a bit hesitant. “' _I will never see…'_ ” 

“No, it’s meant to be read _'Never will I see,'_ ” Basira interrupted. 

“Don’t tell me you speak German. Don’t tell me we just did all of this and you secretly spoke German the whole time…” 

“No, I just know.” Her shrug was pronounced enough to be nearly audible, as were the others’ discomfited stares. “What? It sounds right!”

“Oh...kay. I guess it does sound better,” Tim grudgingly agreed. “' _Never will I see that granite choir of worn and mossy angels without tracing the linework of your throat, your ribs, your lips in their outstretched wings.'_ ” 

“Definitely sounds better,” Melanie noted. “Also, hot DAMN!” 

“' _Unholy, perhaps, but you_ are _fearfully and wonderfully made. And there is something rather celestial in'_ \-- sorry, Basira, there’s something crossed out here. Can you--” 

“Sure,” she said blithely. “...' _those eyes_ ,' it says. But the word crossed out is...it says _'all of these...'_ no, _'all of those_.'” 

“Are you _sure_?” 

“Uh, yeah. Pretty sure.” 

“Yeah, okay,” said Tim, his tone of voice like that of a fed-up neighbor asking the nocturnal tuba player next door to _please_ give it a rest for the seventh time in as many days. “' _And there is something rather celestial in all those eyes of yours, isn’t there_?'” 

“Sounds about right,” said Basira nonchalantly. Tim audibly sighed. 

“Back to English now...' _Kindly burn this letter after you read it -- and then begin planning your return post haste. We regret your absence already. Most devotedly yours, Albrecht von Closen.'_ ” 

“Why are we all acting like this isn’t the weirdest one so far? This is _definitely_ the weirdest one so far,” Melanie pointed out. “They boned in a _graveyard_.” 

“Like Mary Shelley,” Basira observed tranquilly. 

“I need to lie down,” said Tim, and the recorder clicked off. 

***

_**Bavaria, 1815** _

Jonah followed von Closen down a narrow, poorly maintained road, flanked by beech trees, their long branches almost creating the illusion of a green tunnel. Von Closen walked quickly and spoke nearly as fast, which made for a nice change of pace -- both literally and figuratively -- from what Jonah was used to. He was used to dominating conversations, or sitting back to observe, always feeling like he had an advantage. But talking with von Closen was like a tennis match.

A break in the trees revealed a meadow of wildflowers, still in full bloom before the impending summer heat would cause them to wither away, tinted red and orange by the sun beginning to set behind the distant mountains. Jonah was almost surprised when von Closen didn’t stop there; the view was gorgeous enough to constitute a suitable location to bring one’s guest. 

“Follow me,” von Closen said, taking Jonah by the hand and pulling him onto an even narrower and even more poorly maintained road -- if one could even call it that; it was more of a dilapidated, overgrown path.

The further they walked, the deeper they went into the woods, the more curious Jonah became. Eventually, they reached their destination: an ancient, derelict graveyard, as overgrown as the path they entered from. Though it was clear there had been no burials here in decades, if not centuries, it was surprisingly well preserved, save for a few broken headstones, as well as moss and vines which wove themselves around almost every inch of marble they could reach.

“This is...” Jonah began, somehow lost for words.

“Spectacular?” 

“Yes,” was all he managed to say as he soaked in the sight before him.

“It is quite peaceful, is it not? Many, including myself, like to come here regularly to experience its beauty. However, it has gained something of a reputation as a spot where unwed couples go with amorous intentions,” von Closen said playfully.

“Oh,” Jonah replied, his eyebrows raised so high he felt them come into contact with a lock of hair that had fallen across his face at some point during the walk.

“Do not worry, no one will see us here. Nobody comes here during the full moon because it is said to be cursed.” 

“Cursed? And you’re taking me here _now_? Have I caused some sort of offense and this is your way of getting rid of me?” Jonah half-joked.

“No, I do not believe the story is true, but if it were, I know that you of all people would want to find out for yourself.”

Jonah opened his mouth, but he had no rebuttal. Eventually he just turned to von Closen and sincerely said, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You are welcome,” von Closen said, stepping forward and placing a hand on the small of Jonah’s back. “I know you like things that most may consider odd or even frightening.”

 _Now, this could prove to be useful,_ Jonah thought, trying not to completely melt into the other man’s touch.

“Well,” Jonah said, looking up at the older man through his eyelashes, “If you hear of, or God forbid, see anything _strange,_ do write to me about it.”

“Of course,” von Closen said, leaning in to kiss Jonah.

***

_T_ _his probably isn’t wise,_ Jonah thought to himself as he let von Closen pull his shirt off and drape it over a headstone along with his other outer layers. 

A hint of guilt _almost_ bubbled to the surface as he remembered just how soon it’d been since his night with Robert, but _technically_ , they had never formed an arrangement. For all Jonah knew, Robert could’ve been courting ten separate women at an assortment of balls every night since his departure. For all he knew, that was just a single night of passion that would fade to a long lasting friendship (it wouldn’t be the first time that happened)...or at least that was what he told himself.

“Your eyes,” von Closen said, “they are like the weathered statues which surround us -- they are gorgeous.”

With those words, that feeling Jonah had was entirely dispelled. He wrapped his arms around von Closen, clinging to his shoulders as he was laid down upon a tomb. Where Jonah should have felt hard stone, he instead felt a soft bed of moss pressing up against his newly exposed back, forcing him to stifle a gasp.

“Are you ready to begin?” von Closen said, climbing onto the tomb with him.

“ _Begin?_ Then what was everything up until now?” Jonah replied, bemused, staring up at the equally undressed man straddling him.

***

Jonah watched von Closen step back to admire his work, his face illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off of the headstones and monuments surrounding them.

“My God,” von Closen said softly, “you are absolutely ravishing, Jonah -- it is not too forward of me to call you by your given name, is it?”

“At this point?” Jonah replied, on his knees with his back to an angel statue, nodding upwards towards his wrists, bound by his own cravat to its serene praying hands. “I should think not.”

“I see. Well, you may use my given name too if you so choose,” von Closen said with a laugh. 

“I shall keep that in mind,” Jonah replied, hungry for whatever von Closen had in store for him.

“If I had any artistic talent I would beg to sketch you like this to always remember how angelic you look tonight, Jonah.”

Despite his best effort, Jonah felt himself blush at this. He had never imagined the word “angelic” would ever be used in reference to him, but there was something about it, about the comparison to a being both beautiful and beyond mortal comprehension, that made his skin tingle.

Von Closen knelt down beside him, grabbing the side of Jonah’s jaw and turning his head to inspect him, “You really are quite stunning, aren’t you?”

Jonah couldn’t say he’d ever been in a situation like this before, stripped down and entirely at the mercy of another man, but for how little he'd known von Closen he trusted him quite considerably. Jonah felt his pulse beneath von Closen’s thumb, and his breath quicken. Von Closen kissed him, running his other hand down Jonah’s bare chest, his skin prickling delightfully. Von Closen kissed him again, deeper this time, before slipping his hand beneath Jonah’s breeches.

***

Jonah wasn’t sure when they ended up on the ground, in a patch of grass -- or at least, that’s what it felt like. A cloud had partially obscured the moon, making them depend more on their other senses, but now it was Jonah’s turn to call the shots and he was going to do anything but hold back.

“Now tell me, dear,” Jonah said between kisses, holding von Closen’s hands down, “if you want me to stop.”

“Oh, you will know if that becomes the case,” he barely got out. 

“Good.”

Jonah then dropped to his elbows, their chests pressed together as he nipped at the other man’s ear. They were going to be so filthy after this -- literally covered in dirt and fragments of foliage, but that didn’t matter in that moment, all that mattered was the feeling of von Closen’s--

***

**_London, 2018_ **

Tim may have said that he needed to lie down, but Elias was the one who really looked like he was going to keel over. It seemed his face had drained entirely of blood. Between the meticulously tidy hair, the tailored suit, and the stark topography of his sharp-boned face, their boss looked like some kind of old-timey vampire. He hadn’t moved his eyebrows in half an hour. 

“Boss?” asked Tim, looking one stray motion short of snapping his fingers in front of Elias’s face to see if he’d glitched out entirely.

One, two, three, four, _five_ seconds passed before Elias moved at all. When he did, he didn’t bother to arrange his features into an actual facial expression. Instead, he just shifted his slate-grey eyes from their slightly upward angle -- where they had been situated almost as if Elias were praying for patience -- to instead sear through Tim’s duck-patterned button-up and into his very soul. 

“These findings are obviously really important,” Basira said. “This is a huge part of our Institute’s history, right? It’s kind of miraculous that we found them at all. _Right_?” 

By the time she concluded the sentence, she was practically yelling -- Elias had gotten up from behind the desk and walked out of the room. The three assistants watched their employer’s expensive wing-tip shoes carry him down the stairs, through the lobby, and presumably out of the Institute’s heavy wooden doors. 

“Well, that went well,” Basira said. 

“I’m going to go through his desk,” said Melanie, a dastardly gleam in her eye. 

“No, you’re not. None of our employers are here. Working day’s over,” argued Tim. 

“It’s twelve noon,” Basira commented. 

“And? C’mon, drinks are on me,” said Tim. 

“Fine,” huffed Melanie, following him out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are once again committing cravat misdemeanors...
> 
> stick around - next chapter introduces boy toy #3!!


	6. Chapter 6

**_London, 2018_ **

Melanie was laying on the floor of her office, watching the ugly, out-of-date texture of the ceiling ripple and pulse. She’d been recovering from a cold and thought it’d be a good idea to try counteracting her Nyquil hangover with not one, but two energy drinks first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, instead of waking her up, it had effectively banished her to another dimension.

There was a knock at the door that Melanie could have sworn she felt in her sternum.

“Yeah?” she said, unmoving.

“So, I’m bored,” Basira said, opening the door. “Are there any more of those letters left -- what are you doing down there?”

“We read the last of the letters from Bavarian Guy von What’s His Nuts,” replied Melanie, peeling herself up off the floor, her pulse pounding (somehow) in her sinuses. “But we haven’t gotten to ‘Boy Toy Number Three,’ as Tim calls him.”

“Right, yeah,” she said skeptically. “Do you want to do that, then?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Melanie said with an intensity that neither she nor Basira expected.

They stared at each other for a moment before Basira said, “I’ll go get Tim.”

***

“Em, I guess it’s my turn to read one of these things,” Basira said, sitting at Tim’s desk with a small stack of ancient pages and a tape recorder daring her to press the record button.

“You’re the one who wanted to move on to Boy Toy Number Three,” Tim said cheekily.

“I thought you were exaggerating about Tim calling him that,” said Basira, swiveling her chair to face Tim and Melanie.

“Nope,” they replied in unison, Tim’s tone orders of magnitude more enthusiastic than Melanie’s.

“Yeah, okay… Should I...?”

“Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it,” Melanie and Tim chanted in a way Melanie knew was probably more threatening than encouraging.

Basira hit the record button, wincing as it made its familiar ominous sounds.

“Alright,” she began, “today we are recording a series of four short letters from Barnabas Bennett, written between, erm, 1806 and 1808--”

“Holy shit, that’s almost ten years before any of the letters from the others,” Melanie interrupted.

“Yup, and there’s a pretty big stack of other letters from this guy too,” Tim added.

“Daaaayyyyuuuummm.”

Basira shot them a look that clearly said “you idiots are _not_ helping.” They both grumbled apologies and let her continue.

“Yeah, so we’re recording a series of short letters from Barnabas Bennett, written between 1806 and 1808, while he was on his ‘Grand Tour’ of Europe, whatever that means. Erm, first letter begins, 26 October 1806. _‘My dearest Jonah, you will be pleased to know that I safely arrived in Paris on the 11th. Though you know me well enough to know I would not get myself robbed or killed whilst in transit, and I know you well enough to know you aren’t the type to worry, I do feel terribly sorry for not writing to you sooner. I learned quickly upon my arrival that my French was even more lacking than we thought it was, and--’_ ”

“ _We?_ How close were they? I mean, we know they must have been _close_ if he ended up in the box, but it sounds like they were close in ways other than the way the rest of the dudes were,” Melanie blurted out, her mouth moving 100 miles per hour faster than her brain, still very much feeling the effects of the energy drinks.

“Okay… Letter resumes? _‘I have done little in this past fortnight other than study so I may spare myself and my hosts from embarrassment. I know what you must be thinking, Jonah, and no, I have not forgotten that I came here in part to gain proficiency in the language since I was unable to achieve it in school, but I am sure you will believe me when I tell you how terribly overwhelmed I felt. I assumed that once the novelty wore off, living among strangers in a foreign land would cause me to ache for home, but I have found that is not the case. While I do feel as though I am starting to settle into my accommodations, I still wake up every morning surprised that I am, in fact, in Paris, and there is so much of the city I have yet to explore.’_ ”

It wasn’t that Melanie was bored or disappointed by this letter, it was just that this one was...tamer than what she’d expected.

“' _But I have already fallen into the clutches of homesickness, and to an extent I did not foresee. It is now my hope that I will grow accustomed to this lifestyle, but in the meantime I find myself missing England. And more severely, I find myself missing you, Jonah. Missing our conversations where something in the stillness of the night provides a sense of security where we may discuss things far more intimate than what either of us would dare to say to the other in the day.’_ ”

“ _Now_ we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Melanie said, rubbing her hands together, unaware she’d said it out loud until she saw the disappointed looks on Tim and Basira’s faces.

“ _‘I daresay I find myself getting a bit emotional writing this -- please don’t laugh at me for confessing this, we both know what you said before I left and I will not let you forget it anytime soon. But I do hope you find the time in that curiously busy schedule of yours to write to me, I know I gave you a copy of my itinerary so you may always know where to find me. Yours...Barnabas.’_ First letter ends.”

“So, uh, anyone else wondering what the hell Jonah said to him before he left?” Tim asked.

“Oh, I definitely am,” Melanie replied.

“Yeah, same here,” Basira concurred. “Alright, second letter, 13 June 1807. _‘My dearest Jonah, any melancholia I clung to in Paris has been soundly exorcised. I write to you looking out over Lake Geneva, light flashing coldly into my eyes as we speak (ergo the above ink blot). I am thinking of you, of course -- I am often thinking of you.’_ Let the record show that before the word ‘often’, the word ‘always’ is crossed out.”

Tim let out a little, “Aw...” 

“Letter resumes, _‘My tutors think I’m lazy, but I prefer to say I’m Otherwise Intellectually Engaged. It’s hard to think of foggy London here. I’ve seen such things! Man-made things -- cathedrals, aqueducts, spires. A really rather extraordinary number of cathedrals, Protestant and Catholic._ Many _cathedrals. I rather believe I’ve seen a lifetime supply. It’s the natural wonders that really strike me, though. The Alps towering above Geneva like hands raised to heaven. Mighty rivers and forests that turn daylight to dusk.’_ ”

It was probably all the sugar and caffeine pumping through her veins, but Melanie had the sudden urge to literally take a hike.

“' _I can’t help but think even the most impressive sight would be augmented if you were here with me. Do write soon, won’t you? You must, otherwise I will hasten back to London and cause a tremendous scandal for you. I know not what, but I shall put an end to any marriage prospects you may have had--’_ ”

Tim began silently laughing, providing an example of how one could have a visceral response to the outrageous bullshit that popped up in these letters without ruining the recording (although they both knew he was not free from sin).

“ _‘This is an idle threat, of course, but can you imagine? Yours...Barnabas.’_ Second letter ends.”

Basira turned to Melanie and Tim and looked at them expectantly. When they had no commentary to add, she moved on.

“Third letter, 5 November 1807. _‘Dearest Jonah, Vienna is...how to describe Vienna? It’s a cold place. Not in terms of the weather, which is actually rather fine for November. It’s a different sort of coldness, something carved into statues and laced into gilding. Buildings here do not simply stand -- they stand at attention. This is the House of Habsburg’s seat of power, and they certainly shan’t let anyone forget it.’_ ”

Melanie wanted to make a joke about how she’d been learning more about history from these letters than she did in school, but she was too invested in all of this to interrupt Basira.

“‘ _The dances are splendid here, of course -- there’s finery like you’ve never seen. The ladies wear diamonds worth half the continent; the gentlemen nearly knock their Bohemian crystal glasses together when they lean towards each other to talk politics in muted tones. As I’ve no command of German at all, I’ve been relying rather heavily on a handful of younger members of the British diplomatic set. They’re challenging conversationalists, as all their chats inevitably wander towards wild speculation about Napoleon. It’s cold in other ways, too. Home seems in another world. You seem in another world. Jonah, I--’_ there’s a long passage crossed out that I can’t make out.” 

Tim went on a rapid face journey indicating that his mind went to the same filthy places that Melanie’s did.

“ _‘Vienna’s music is lovely, you know, but I cannot love it. Why must every flourish of the orchestra put me in mind of your voice? It seems rather cruel. I’m--’_ there’s another redaction. _‘I am not sure what I am trying to say. Only that I believe your presence would make even austere Vienna sweet, while your absence freezes fountains and turns the sky grey as granite. It’s rude of me to ask you to write so soon after your last letter. Write anyway. Yours devotedly...Barnabas.’_ Third letter ends.”

Basira took a short break to drink some water. 

Melanie sneezed. “Excuse me.”

“You are not excused,” Tim said obnoxiously.

Melanie pushed Tim in his chair halfway across the office for that comment.

“Alright,” Basira said, picking up the final letter. “Fourth letter, 17 May 1808. _‘My dearest Jonah, I am nearing the end of my stay in Milan, but I find myself needing to briefly update you seeing as I have done so much since I wrote to you last. I will, of course, tell you about everything in detail once we are together next, but again, I simply cannot shake away my desire to write to you. My month in Venice was anything but mundane -- it certainly lives up to its reputation. How easy it is for one to find a lover there, sin and temptation at every turn.’_ ” 

Tim pressed his mouth into a thin line and raised his eyebrows at Melanie, clearly resisting the urge to make a dirty joke.

“' _I did find myself giving into temptation in some aspects -- there were more than a few late nights of heavy drinking that turned into me watching the sun rise as I struggled to find my way home, but that’s the extent to which I indulged myself. I know you said that I should take my tour to rake about--’_ ”

As though their respective last brain cells were quantum entangled, Melanie and Tim both shouted, “AYOOOO!!!” with the exact same intonation.

Rather than looking annoyed, Basira cracked a slight smile before continuing, “But then there’s a bit crossed out which’d make it, _‘I know you said that I should take my tour to rake about, as we know you have a tendency to do wherever you go--’_ ”

The last remaining shred of decorum in the room flew out the window as the three dissolved into laughter.

“At least this one’s aware of our esteemed founder’s incurable horniness,” Tim wheezed, wiping away an actual tear he’d shed.

“Okay, I can do this,” Basira said to herself, catching her breath. “Letter continues, _‘but there wasn’t another living soul in the town whom I was tempted by. It appears I do not particularly wish to be in the company of anyone at this moment -- except for you. Perhaps it is just knowing I will be seeing you shortly, but I find myself missing you more than I have in quite some months, and it seems that in this year and a half we have been apart, my--’_ ”

Basira clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What is it?” Melanie inquired, literally on the edge of her seat.

“Okay, this is actually really cute. It says, _‘it seems that in this year and a half we have been apart, my affection for you has only grown.’_ But it was originally, _‘it seems that in this year and a half we have been apart, my_ love _for you has only grown.’_ ”

“That _is_ really cute, oh my god,” Melanie replied, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside (although that might have been in part because she was vibrating at the cellular level).

“Right? Letter resumes, _‘I won’t bore you further with my sentimentality, this letter is already longer than I had planned. After Venice I ventured down to Rome and tired myself out trying to see everything the town had to offer -- the history, the art, etc., but I still feel as though I barely saw any of it. Then I travelled back up to Milan, which brings us to the present. Between all the cathedrals around me and the alps in the distance, I have a nagging sense of deja vu, as you might imagine, but I hope to find more things in this town that stand out from everything else I have seen on the continent before I have to return home.’_ ”

Basira paused, looking woozy. 

“Probably...shouldn’t’ve tried reading that last sentence in one breath,” she said, breathing slowly and deeply to recenter herself. “Letter continues, _‘There is no need for you to write back to me, I will already be halfway to England by the time you receive this letter, but know that I will be thinking of you frequently on my journey back, and I will write to you as soon as I am in town. Yours entirely...Barnabas.’_ Letter ends,” she finished, turning off the tape recorder. 

“These were all so...soft?” Tim said tentatively.

“Yeah, soft,” Basira agreed, nodding. “Can we read the rest of these?”

“Oh, absolutely. But first, I think there’s _someone_ ,” Melanie said to the ceiling before turning back to her coworkers, “who needs to hear our work.”

***

 **_London_ ** **_  
_****_August 1808_ **

A brisk wind whisked off of the harbor. Jonah could feel it mussing his hair, but, for once in his life, he didn’t much mind. 

Two years. No, that wasn’t exactly right. Twenty-two months; just shy of two years. Felt like more. 

A muffled, overcast sort of light flickered from the churning murky waves and into his eyes. He could barely hear the voices buzzing around him, and he certainly couldn’t distinguish one from another. 

Twenty-two months and all those letters. Jolly ink-spotted paragraphs dashed out in five minutes before flying out the door to catch a carriage. Sweet heartfelt missives that left Jonah with a lump in his throat and a frenetic impulse to hop a ship and make his way through tree-gnarled hinterlands ‘til he arrived, bedraggled to the point of being utterly unfit for proper society, at the door to the student’s quarters where Barnabas lived. 

(He’d had this fantasy often, and it had become steadily more elaborate every time.)

He was rather violently uprooted from his reverie when a not-insignificant mass moving at not-insignificant speed collided with him so soundly that he was knocked breathless. It took him a moment to tally the details: the dark blue fabric of the arm slung about his shoulders, the hand steady at his back like it was preventing him from flying to pieces on the autumn wind. The chestnut curls and the sunlit warmth and the overwhelming sense that all of Fate’s forces had led him to the right place. 

“You’re here,” Barnabas half-whispered. 

“Of course I’m here,” said Jonah, slightly strangled, trying to rearrange his countenance so his grin didn’t appear utterly preposterous. 

He closed his eyes a moment. He’d memorized every gesture of this embrace a long time ago. They’d been children together, then youths; students, now young men. After all this time, Barnabas’s arms still felt like reassurance, his chest like kept promises, his pulse like a clear path forward. 

“I should let you go,” Barnabas reasoned. “People will think it’s improper.” 

“I don’t give a damn what people think.” 

“God, I’ve missed you.” Barnabas had tried to say it casually, Jonah could tell, but his voice caught and his hand tightened on Jonah’s grey lapel and Jonah thought _How could I ever have let you go alone_? 

***

They sat by the fire -- well, _sat_ was a loose term, really. They half-laid on the sofa by the fire in Jonah’s rooms, the city dark and close around them. Jonah laced his fingers through the noticeably unkempt head of hair resting against his chest. 

“It was lovely,” Barnabas said again. He’d spent the evening recounting his exploits across the Continent: sordid details of rakish revelry, museums and ruins, nearly falling asleep standing up while staring at the same; the stifling heat of Milan and Venetian wine-dark nights and Geneva covered in snow like confectioner’s sugar. 

“You’re lovely,” Jonah said half-absently. 

“Come off it.” 

“I’m serious,” Jonah said, his theatricality wrapped up in a lingering sidelong glance. 

“Fine, I’m serious too. I couldn’t get my mind off of you. Through every...dalliance. It wasn’t fair to them, really.” He stared into the fire, looking disturbed, ever the bleeding heart. 

“I thought of you through every eight-hour night in the library, so...” 

“Not the same!” protested Barnabas, half-shoving Jonah. 

“Fine. How’s every waking moment? How are little eternities waiting for the post, hoping, my heart breaking, tormented by your absence…” 

“Oh, stop,” protested Barnabas, laughing, the blush over his cheeks almost obscured by the low light. He looked up, caught Jonah’s gaze, then caught Jonah’s lips with his own. 

It was a familiar kiss, a comfortable caress, all ambrosia and nectar and truth; in it all the hubris of youth, all the promises of forever. 

***

**_London, 2018_ **

Basira led the charge to deliver the tapes to their resentful recipient. Over the course of the past hour she’d upgraded from aiding and abetting Tim and Melanie’s archival crimes to becoming a full-blown co-conspirator, and Melanie _loved_ it. Basira was the shortest of the three of them, and yet she blasted up the stairs, skipping every other step, causing both Melanie and Tim to have to run after her.

Before they had the chance to decide who’d get the honor of knocking on Elias’ office door and making some sort of witty comment, they heard him say in an exhausted tone, “It’s unlocked. Just do whatever you have planned and get it over with.”

“Well, if you insist, boss,” Tim said, opening the door.

They all attempted to step into the office at the same time, creating a three-person traffic jam in the doorframe. Melanie managed to get through the door first -- whether she wiggled her way through or got squeezed through by her coworkers was unclear, but it didn’t really matter because the result was the same regardless. Melanie was the first person through the door, which meant she was the first one to see the state that Elias was in. It’d be wrong to say he looked like a complete mess, because everyone suspected that hell would freeze over before he let anyone see him looking like a complete mess, but he looked _seriously_ off.

Elias was sitting at his desk with his blazer slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up, and coiffed hair beginning to droop onto his forehead. He stared -- or rather, grimaced at an open laptop, its screen reflecting off his glasses, papers and empty coffee cups spread all over his desk. Before looking up, he screwed the cap back onto the fountain pen he’d been gripping like a stress ball and then put his hands flat on the desk as though Melanie hadn’t already noticed the ink stains on his fingers.

“Is this a bad time?” Basira asked, making it apparent she did not care what the answer was.

Elias didn’t respond; he just glared at her, looking like he’d spent the past week with a headache and they were all making it worse. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Basira said, doing the bare minimum to not damage the documents on the desk while clearing a place to put the tape recorder. 

In the moment between when Basira set it down and when she pressed play, Elias tensed up, looking at it wearily. He always braced for impact before they played him one of these tapes, but this was different. This time was almost like the way a prey animal freezes when startled. 

Basira hit play.

 _“Alright,”_ the recording of Basira could be heard, _“today we are recording a series of four short letters from Barnabas Bennett--”_

Something in Elias’ expression changed at the mention of Boy Toy Number Three’s name. It shifted ever so slightly, briefly flashing something adjacent to a look of horror. (If Melanie didn’t know better, she’d say it was also approaching a look of hurt).

They only made it maybe a few sentences into the reading of the first letter before Elias let out a silent sigh, practically deflating, and reached out to stop the tape. He’d never done this before.

“Aw, you’re no fun!” Tim said with a pout.

There was a moment of weird silence.

“It pains me to say this,” Elias began, and it clearly _did_ pain him, “but I give you my blessing to continue recording these, just please keep it to yourselves. I am trying to finalize the details of a crucial donor event and I will not allow you to jeopardize the Institute’s funding by getting in my way.” 

_Yes, he’s starting to break,_ Melanie thought.

“Thanks, I guess?” Tim said, puzzled.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Melanie,” said Elias accusatorally. 

“What can I say? Sometimes it’s fun being the one watching,” Melanie said, raising her eyebrows, trying to contain how thrilled she was to _finally_ be able to use that line.

“Please get out of my office.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim said, heading out the door with Melanie.

“Bye.” Basira popped the tape out of the player and left it on the desk before turning to catch up with her coworkers.

“Okay, did anyone else notice how that was _extra_ weird?” Melanie said as they walked down the stairs to the archives.

“Yeah,” Basira agreed.

“Yup, that was _super_ fucking weird,” Tim added.

“Something doesn’t smell right -- like, even more than normal. I’m gonna break into his office and investigate,” Melanie said.

“No you’re not,” Basira began, causing Melanie to become acutely aware she just divulged her plans to commit breaking and entering to an ex-cop before Basira added: “ _we_ are going to break into his office.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, subscribers. apologies for the delay, but we are being annihilated by our educations and our lizard brains! we hope to be back on schedule soon......?


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